


Walking on Wires and Powerlines

by youmockussir



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Background Cecilos, Crack Treated Seriously, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, I am truly sorry for this, Smut, Typical Night Vale Weirdness, background michelle/maureen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-19 12:54:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22978018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youmockussir/pseuds/youmockussir
Summary: “You’re not the only all-powerful conglomeration of water vapors around,” Deb snarls, “But some of us exercise some gosh-darn self-control.”She gathers up her things and storms out of the cafe. She stops, just before The Glow Cloud, and turns.“Get a grip,” Deb spits, and turns on her metaphorical heel, phasing through the door.What anasshole.ORThe Deb/Glow Cloud Enemies-to-Lovers fic you didn't know you needed
Relationships: Carlos/Cecil Palmer, Deb/The Glow Cloud
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	Walking on Wires and Powerlines

**Author's Note:**

> An experiment in present tense, writing a little fanfic in every cafe in copenhagen, midwesternisms and surrealist pseudoscientific erotica. I’m sorry. I'm so, so sorry.
> 
> Content warnings: dead animals. normal nightvale weirdness.smut but, simultaneously, no smut at all. the occasional fuck word. intern death.

Once, it is said that Deb isn’t capable of love. 

It is said as a fact, a piece of a puzzle that isn’t really related to Deb at all. Like, after seeing that the sand is wet, and the sky is cloudy, and your umbrella is flipped inside out, after gluing together all of these pieces of empirical evidence, you can conclude that it rained. It is like that for Deb. Except, of course, the evidence was that Deb doesn’t speak in a Boston accent (although her sister does), and Deb didn’t grow up on a horse farm, and Deb isn’t capable of love. These facts provide a man with the information he needs to catch a spy on the loose who was impersonating Deb, although she hardly cares about that. It’s a fact like any other. 

Not that Deb particularly cares for facts. Really, she often relies on half-truths and malevolent lies in her line of work. 

It’s not a fact that is particularly true, though. Deb isn’t _not_ capable of love. It’s just that she doesn’t exercise that ability often, in the way that love is expected. She certainly enjoys forking casualties onto bystander human lives, but she wouldn’t say that she loves it. It’s more a means to an end than the end itself. 

She is, however, capable of hatred. This is a muscle that she exercises often (perhaps the muscle that she exercises most often, as she is a sentient patch of haze and doesn’t have any literal muscles to flex). She hates rabbits, and humans who ride bicycles, and non-profit organizations. She also really, _really_ hates the Glow Cloud.

People are always like ‘Deb! You’re a sentient patch of haze, he’s a sentient cloud, it’s like you’re meant to be!’ And Deb resists the urge to make dramatic gagging noises or poison their water. These are often the same people who think that Gamora and the Hulk would be a great couple because they’re both green. _They never even interact in the movies!_ she cries. _And they only talk once in the comics!_ (Deb will never admit it, but she is a bit of a nerd for the whole _Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants Cinematic Universe_ ). 

But anyways. The Glow Cloud. _Gross._

Deb has a sponsorship with McGraw-Hill ‘Educational’ Textbooks this week. Her assistant, Tracy, sets her up with a spot on the radio station Tuesday, Wednesday, Second-Tuesday, and Thursday, and Deb spends most of Monday in the Barista District absorbing coffee and preparing her script. 

She’s in the middle of absorbing her second croissant when she hears a rhythmic thumping from the distance. She looks up, kind of, expecting to see the coffee grinder sprung loose, or the baristas in a cultural dance battle. Instead, what she sees just outside the frosted glass door is something much, much worse. 

The door pushes open, and a dead gopher rolls in. Shortly behind it is The Glow Cloud.

“All Hail The Mighty Glow Cloud” drones the cafe staff, and Deb groans. Ugh, what an _asshole_. 

Still, she has a moderately harmful script to prepare, so she tries her best to ignore the droning of the weak-minded humans around her. 

_For the low, low, price of $19.95 a day, for seven years,_ she writes _, you can own the knowledge of intermediate mathematical concepts, like trigonometry, virgin sacrifice for beginners,_ **_all hail the glow cloud…._ **

Deb groans again, louder and more midwestern than before. She tries again, crossing out the sentence with a pen (what? human laws don’t apply to her).

 _...concepts like trigonometry, virgin sacrifice for beginners, surface integrals, and color identification. We here at Mcgraw-Hill ‘Educational’ Textbooks want you to_ **_tremble beneath his mighty wrath._ **

Deb throws her pen across the room in frustration.

“Oh my _gosh,”_ she snaps, “Can you shut up for one fricking minute?!”

Then, silence.

Everyone in the cafe stares at her. The Glow Cloud stares at her.

Deb doesn’t back down. She stares back.

“You’re not the only all-powerful conglomeration of water vapors around,” she snarls, “But _some of us_ exercise some gosh-darn self-control.”

She gathers up her notebook and pastry, before storming out of the cafe. She stops, just before she’s out of sight, and turns.

“Get a grip,” Deb spits, and turns on her metaphorical heel, phasing through the door. 

What an _asshole._

* * *

“...and the woman was terrified. Her boyfriend was nowhere to be seen, and the pitchy, scraping noise creaked through her entire car. She opened the door, and saw, on the handle, a hook! In the horizon, she saw a man, and she knew… that it was John Peters, you know, the farmer? He sure was bad at fishing. The woman tossed back the baited hook, and continued on her way. This has been traffic.”

Deb has a copy of today’s show, and so she knows her segment is next. She drifts into the radio booth.

“And now a word from our sponsor. For that, we have here in the studio, our favorite vindictive sentient patch of haze, Deb!”

Cecil is prepared for Deb. Having had her on the show dozens of times, he knows exactly how to avoid having her haze overlap with his body. A mic is set up on the other side of the booth, complete with Deb’s favorite water beverage and a soothing low-speed fan. 

Cecil is perhaps Deb’s favorite flesh bag.

“Hiya, Cecil. Today’s show is brought to you by McGraw-Hill ‘Educational’ Textbooks. Want to spend a lot of money on information you can find online for free?”

“Oh boy, do I!” says Cecil enthusiastically. 

“Want to understand complex ideas like thermodynamics, religion, and geography?”

“Absolutely!” says Cecil. “The other day my husband, Carlos, was telling me how he went to college in some weird exotic place called ‘Mass- Massach-- Mass-Chew-Setties’ and I was like ‘where even is that’ and he was like ‘Cecil, I’m a scientist, not a map-maker. But it’s in Canada’ and I was like ‘Where is that?’ and he was like ‘I don’t even remember my last name, why would I know where Canada is’ and I had to concede that point.”

Deb clears her ‘throat’.

“Sorry,” says Cecil. “Continue.”

“For the low, low, price of $19.95 a day, for seven years, you can own the knowledge of intermediate mathematical concepts, like trigonometry, virgin sacrifice for beginners, surface integrals, and color identification. We here at Mcgraw-Hill ‘Educational’ Textbooks want you to _tremble beneath his mighty-_ ah, dang it.”

“Deb?”

“Ope, sorry, vulnerable squishy human beings,” says Deb. “I seem to have brought the wrong version of the script. It’s that fricking Glow Cloud’s fault. No worries, though. What I say doesn’t really matter. What matters is the post-hypnotic suggestion rays that I am beaming into your fragile mortal brains, that make you extra susceptible to my every capitalistic want and desire.”

“Uh, what was that?”

“It’s that no-good Glow Cloud’s fault, he was distracting me while I was writing this ad,” Deb explains.

“No, about the mind control-” 

Deb interrupts, “Allow me an editorial, Cecil?”

Cecil frowns. “No, I don’t think we have time for that, you’ve already gone over your allotted 45 seco-”

“Thanks, Cecil. I wanted you all to know that I really, really hate that awful Glow Cloud. He’s always dropping dead animals everywhere, like he doesn’t even care that it’s against the law to litter. And wherever he goes, everyone is all ‘All Hail The Glow Cloud’ and ‘Behold The Magnificent Cloud.’ Like, ego much?”

“Well, he is a powerful Night Vale citizen, AND is the president of the PTA.” Cecil justifies.

“Psh,” says Deb. “Who needs public schools, when you can get all your ‘educational’ needs met by McGraw-Hill ‘Educational’ Textbooks. See, it’s still part of the ad. I tied it all together. I’m a professional.”

“uhh. Thank you, Deb! And now, sports…”

* * *

Deb lives in a nice apartment in Old Town. It is spacious and modern, and hers. You could say it is the nicest place in Night Vale, suitable for royalty or politicians, because of the spacious, well-lit rooms, expensive furniture, and modern appliances. You could also say that it is suitable for politicians because one lives there. Dana lives there. It’s Dana’s apartment. That doesn’t mean that Deb doesn’t also live there. 

While Dana is the only name on the lease, she has acquired a few roommates over the years. The first, of course, is the Faceless Old Woman who secretly lives in her home. The Faceless Old Woman had also lived in Dana’s shitty apartment before she was mayor. They were close like that.

Then, former mayor Pamela Winshell. Technically, she was the first one to live there. It was, of course, the mayor’s suite, and Pamela hadn’t moved in so much as she just had refused to move out. Dana is okay with this. 

After Dana had returned from the Desert Otherworld, she had grown close with Maureen. There is something about not eating or drinking for months at a time that bonds friends in a way that coffee dates just don’t. So, when Dana was thrust into the world of small-town politics, rather against her will, she wanted to share her new space with someone familiar. They sometimes joke that the two of them form the “NVCR Internship Survivors Club.” And, of course, since Maureen lives there, Michelle is never too far away.

Deb had moved in a few months later. At first, Dana thought that the chilly night breezes and spontaneous corporate advertisements were just a standard haunting, but one morning she slept in, and saw Deb trying to make scrambled eggs in the kitchen. She had shrieked, mayorally, and Deb had dropped the pan. 

Deb just sort of lived there after that. She didn’t respect humans enough to ask to move in, nor did she respect humans enough to want to pay rent to one. Dana is okay with this too. Her childhood home was always full of visiting family and friends, and she loves having a full apartment. She gets lonely a little easier than others. Plus, Deb brings home a lot of free samples from miscellaneous companies

It’s a pleasant evening for the house. Dana sits at the coffee table, absentmindedly chewing on fistfuls of dirt while going over some bill proposals. Deb sits (floats?) across from her, mindlessly scrolling through her instagram feed on her laptop. She’s found that instagram is a great place to find harmful companies to get sponsorships from.

Across the room, Maureen and Michelle each have an earbud in. Their headphones are plugged into a baked potato, and the silence is intermittently sprinkled with “This is so fresh!” and “I think you’re fresh” and the ironic sounds of making out. Pamela is standing in front of a mirror, practicing her denial skills. 

“That’s not a cow!” Pamela says, making aggressive eye contact with the woman on the other side of the mirror. “I bet you don’t even know what a cow looks like! There are no cows in night vale! Cows aren’t even real!” She seems satisfied with this, and begins denying the existence of fish to the unblinking, unmoving reflection.

A little pitter-patter-- no, strike that, it’s more like rhythmic thumping-- startles Dana out of her notes. She swallows her mouthful of potting soil and looks up.

“Wha-” she starts, as little bits of the ceiling start to flake off. A porcupine falls into her lap. 

This isn’t one of the stranger things to happen to Dana this evening, but it still takes her by surprise. It takes a large dead cow and a gallon of dead snakes for her to understand the cause of the commotion.

“All Hail The Magnificent Glow Cloud,” she prays/drones/cries in unison with her roommates. 

“That’s not a cow!” Pamela chimes in helpfully. _Not anymore, anyway,_ Deb thinks bitterly.

Deb, of course, isn’t susceptible to this weak hypnosis, and chooses instead to rush to the window. She throws it open, knowing full well who decided to stop by.

“Hey!” booms a voice from outside. It’s the Glow Cloud. “Hey Deb! Screw you!” He drops a particularly large alpaca, shattering Deb’s skylight, before yeeting himself unto the sunset. He’s fast, so fast that Deb doesn’t even have time to throw something at him. What would that do, anyway? She hates this feeling. It’s like frustration poured itself into a glass with helplessness ice cubes and a splash of rage syrup.

Pamela is the first to shake herself out of the trance. She looks herself over, and walks over to the shattered skylight, crawling up onto the roof.

“Attention, Night Vale,” she cries, waking up the shift of reporters that sleep in their backyard. “This is an emergency press conference. The Glow Cloud is an enormous asshole. It seems he has waged war on Deb, our local sentient patch of haze. Also, cows aren’t real. Just thought I’d let you know.”

A few NVCR interns are tending to the corpse of an intern who was squished by a falling water buffalo. A particularly brave high-schooler named Rachel holds up an audio recorder.

“Is Deb available for comment?” She trembles from the group* of interns. 

Deb lets herself sink into the basement. She is so tired. She hardly even smiles when the weakly human teenager is struck down by a falling tree and killed instantly.

_*A group of interns is called… what is it called? Hm, a sinfulness of CEOs, a tedium of assistant managers… Ah, yes, it’s an expiration of interns._

* * *

In the same way that Carlos and Cecil’s marriage is the talk of the town because it is on the radio in inappropriate and uncomfortable detail, so becomes the rivalry between Deb and the Glow Cloud. Steve Carlsburg makes ‘Team Deb’ and ‘Team Glow-Cloud’ t-shirts and Janice sells them for girls scouts. She says she’ll get her “Custom T-Shirt Sales And Greed” badge if she sells enough. 

It’s only a matter of time before Cecil brings the two of them on the radio show for a lively debate.

“The magnificent, all knowing glow cloud has a point, Deb,” says Cecil, who has been moderating. “He may drop animals everywhere, but at least those animals were already dead. You have, on multiple occasions, committed deliberate crimes against humanity.”

“I’m sorry, where does humanity fit into this?” Deb asks. “I’m not trying to argue that human lives are important, or anything. I just want to say that the glow cloud sucks.”

“Thank you for that insight, Deb,” says Cecil, clearly trying to move the debate along so he could have time for the weather report. “Any closing remarks, Mr. All-Mighty Glow Cloud, sir?”

“Yes,” rumbles the Glow Cloud. “Deb would have you believe that I am the worst. I would like to say to that: I’m rubber, you’re glue, your words bounce off me and stick to you.”

Deb is taken aback. “What does that even _mean?_ Are you implying that rubber can’t be glued? Or that it would magically repel an adhesive with such force that it would fly at the gluer? I thought you were supposed to be educated.”

A dead horse is flung from the Glow Cloud’s heavenly body. It whooshes through Deb, scattering her haze across the studio. “There’s your fucking glue, Deb!” he booms. 

“And that’s it for the debate!” Cecil cuts in before Deb can do something truly terrible in reiteration. He wants to get home for dinner in the normal number of pieces. “Thank you, Deb, The Everlasting Glow Cloud. More on Mayor Cardinal’s new Bloodstone relief program up next, but first, The Weather.”

* * *

[ The Weather. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y7OCgi7rANc)

* * *

“A dead horse? Really?” snarls Deb as the two entities tumble across the radio studio parking lot. “What’s next, an elephant in my car? A whale in my bed?”

“Please,” growls the Glow Cloud. “You were basically begging me to throw something at you. You deserved every second of that horse. You fucking puddle.”

Deb gasps, and uses all of her vaporous powers to shove the other cloud roughly against the side of his ugly camper van. “You Take. That. Back.” She whispers, looming closely over him. 

The Glow Cloud looks up at her, fog a dense, dark blue. “Make me.” 

He is breathing hard. Almost as hard as Deb. They’re locked in that position: staring, panting, aching. Deb _wants._ She realizes, just at the right moment, that maybe he does too. 

She pushes him just a little harder against the outside of the van, pressing her haze against him. His form presses back a little, like a challenge. They lock eyes for a tense second, and Deb can’t help herself. She kisses him. 

Well, a kiss isn’t quite the right word. It was everything a kiss was supposed to be, yes. Wanting, and wet, and passionate, rhythmic, moaning and full of unexpected friction. She doesn’t have lips, but _god_ she feels like she does. Deb’s whole being feels _electrified_. She’s hyper-aware of every part of her body, smoke she hasn’t thought about in years. 

She remembers herself, their situation. “Inside,” she manages. “Get inside the van, before someone sees.”

The glow cloud is desperate to oblige. The door slams open and he drags her inside.

They waste no time separating. The Glow Cloud pulls Deb on top of him, smashing their entities back together. She moans, feeling his breath on her, their forms overlapping just slightly.

“ _Gosh_ , you’re teasing me,” cries Deb. The friction is almost unbearable between them. She ruts against him, rubbing their fog together in a ragged rhythm. Her entire being is on _fire._

“Please, just touch me,” Deb begs. “Please, please, please,” like a prayer to appease the gods. 

The Glow Cloud draws her closer, and closer, until she can’t tell where she ends and he begins. He is changing colors, she notices ,fainty, beyond the rose-colored world she sees around her. He is rich purple, sometimes flashing a rosy pink where they are touching. She reaches her form towards those pink splashes, and the Glow Cloud _thunders_ , the vibrations of which resound through her. She shudders _hard_.

“More?” She asks, or says, or demands.

“More.” The Glow Cloud rumbles, low vibrato like a nearby thunderstrike. 

Deb passes her haze further into the pink patches, barely controlling herself from going _wild._ She sees little sparks passing in the areas where their clouds collided. Gosh, this felt better than any corporeal pleasure.

Deb steadies herself, and sinks slowly, deliberately, frustratingly onto him. She feels his vapor entering hers, and _fuck_. Deb feels drunk off of the pleasure. Is this what those puny humans are always going on about?

“Is this ok?” asks the Glow Cloud, restrained, and Deb almost laughs. It’s like asking if there was a gallon of water in the ocean. 

“Yes,” she reassured him. “Yes, _please,_ yes.” A stroke of static electricity hits her just right, and she gasps. “ _Please_ don’t stop.”

She is still almost completely enveloped by him at this point, and she is _shaking._ The friction between their bodies is setting off sparks

It could have been seconds, or days, or no time at all when Deb and the Glow Cloud are completely together. He is inside of her, and she is inside of him, and there is no part of her being that isn’t touching his. She has never been more vulnerable, and she has never been more stimulated, and it is completely overwhelming, every thought of the debate or their feud abandoned in favor of chasing that static friction between them. 

It grows hotter, and hotter, and Deb feels the electricity charging between their bodies, rubbing tantalizingly inside her, coating every cubic inch of her being with pleasure and sensation and closeness and friction and --fuck, _fuck_ she’s clenching around him, electricity coursing through her in tight pulses - _all hail-_ she is losing all control of her haze, everything feels so good inside of her and _-all hail-_ she chokes, barely holding back and the Glow Cloud gasps “Deb, _Deb,”_ and - _all hail-_ it is raining and there is thunder in the van and she’s coming, _-ALL HAIL-_ harder than she ever has and lightning strikes between them in an explosion of passion and then. The calm after the storm. Quiet. Soft. Nice.

They breathe.

Deb phases back into existence, remembering first, her name, then where she is, then who she is with--

“Oh my god.” _Deb, what the hell?_ “Oh my god. I can’t believe we just did that.” She looks at the Glow Cloud, who is lounging on the floor of the van, looking at her like he doesn’t know what he’s feeling. His color is-- his color is-- his color is? His color is something that Deb can’t recognize, like every time she tries to focus on a spot her vision just drifts somewhere else.

“Are you alright?” Asks the Glow Cloud after a pregnant pause. 

“Yes,” Deb says, a little too quickly. “You betcha.” She remembers her manners. “Are you?”

“I think so,” says the Glow Cloud. “So…” He looks expectantly at her. 

“This doesn’t mean anything.” Deb blurts out. 

“Of course not.”

* * *

Cecil wrinkles his eyebrows. “How does that even work?” They are sitting in the radio station a few days later, after a broadcast. His eyes widen, and he leans in closer. “Does he have a _secret penis?”_

“What? No?” Deb chokes. “That is the most pitifully human assumption to make. Some of us don’t need corporeal forms to, you know,” she tilts her haze meaningfully, “be intimate.”

“Ah,” Cecil leans back in his chair, understanding. “I see.” He nods pointedly. “Poetry.”

Deb sighs. She doesn’t have to explain the details of her sex life to Cecil, and really doesn’t want to, but she took an intro prophecy course in college and can see exactly where this is going if she doesn’t. 

> **_Deb_ ** _: Thank you, Cecil. Today’s ad is for McDonalds. A haiku:_
> 
> _McDonalds Ketchup_
> 
> _Doesn’t have cocaine this time_
> 
> _Try it, we promise_
> 
> **_Cecil_ ** _: *gasps* Deb! This is a family show! You can’t just have sex on the air! Listeners, for those of you who aren’t in the loop, Deb’s species of sentient patches of haze make love via poetry. I know this because she hooked up with the glow cloud and told me all about it! Deb, you’re banned from the studio permanently._

And she really wants to avoid that. So, using a tasteful series of metaphors and one of the whiteboards lying around, she patiently explains it to him. For his part, Cecil is a very engaged student. 

“Wait a second,” Cecil interrupts, somewhere in the middle, “Your sister once enveloped me entirely in her sentient smoke.” He recoils. “Oh my god, Deb, I had sex with your sister!”

“Cecil,” Deb says shortly. “For goodness sakes, that’s not how this works. It’s like, you give someone a firm handshake, and it’s not sex, right?” Cecil nods slowly, not sure where she’s going with this. “But later that night, those same fingers are inside of Carlos, and that is sex.”

“First of all, that’s adorable that you think Carlos bottoms.” Deb rolls her eyes, kind of.

“But seriously, what does this mean for you two? Is the rivalry over?”

Deb pauses. “No, I don’t think so.” She thinks back to that evening. She wanted to say it was hate sex, anger sex. But, it was so intimate, so wonderful, that she can’t.

“Do you want it to be over?” Cecil asks, and Deb isn’t sure if she knows the answer. That is very unlike her, and it is very unsettling. She shrugs. 

“Just be careful,” Cecil says gently. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

At this, Deb snorts. “Cecil!” She croons. “You know I would sell your entire family for, like, $25.”

“I do,” Cecil says. “That doesn’t mean that I want bad things to happen to you. I was in a similar situation with Sarah Sultan a decade or so ago.” There’s a reminiscent look in his eyes, somewhere between nostalgia and discomfort. “I thought we were just hooking up, and I didn’t think that she would get overly attached because she’s a smooth, fist-sized river rock, but you remember how that ended.”

Deb did remember. That messy three-year on-again-off-again relationship wasn’t something she would wish on anyone. 

“Just, give it some thought, yeah? What you want?” Cecil asks, and Deb can’t help a soft smile.

“You betcha.”

* * *

Deb’s day can’t get any worse. This morning, she wakes to find a large patch of roof inside of her. Upon further inspection, it looks like it fell on her from above her bed while she was sleeping. The roof guy still hasn’t come to fix the roof after the Glow Cloud torpedoed it with dead animals, and at this point it is almost like sleeping outside with the amount of wall still intact. 

Then, there is no more goat milk in the fridge, and Deb has to drink her coffee black, which she hates. She doesn’t have taste buds, but the milk usually stops the coffee from staining her haze a weird color. She hopes it isn’t too noticeable, but when she looks in the mirror she can see little brown patches all over her body. _Great._

Her work day isn’t much better. She hasn’t found a sponsorship since her stint with McDonalds last week, and so has hardly caused _any_ harm to innocent humans. She just feels empty without it. 

After a long, trudging unproductive day, she drags herself home and collapses in the living room. She doesn’t want to get up for at least two days, and when the doorbell rings she swears to physically harm whoever it is. She groans guterally, and opens the door to find--

“Glow Cloud?” Deb is surprised to see him. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard you were having a rough day,” rumbles the cloud. “I got you something.”

He gives her a small cardboard box. Deb frowns.

“Listen, if this is some kind of prank--”

“Just open it,” says the Glow Cloud.

And she does. It’s… 

Deb has no idea what it is, but it’s not making her haze-ache go away. She looks at the Glow Cloud questioningly.

“It’s a human-remover,” explains the cloud. “You press the button and it plays this really high-pitched noise that humans hate. It’s great if you want to find some quiet.”

Deb stares at him.

“...What?” He squints.

“This is the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me.”

She doesn’t wait for a response. Deb brings the Glow Cloud in for a soft kiss. Sort of.

They pull away. 

“What was that for?” 

Deb just says, “Thank you,” and pulls him in for another kiss, and another, and another, each more tender than the last. 

* * *

Deb has a lot of hidden capabilities. She can travel at up to 25 miles per hour in the air. She can remember numbers and figures very easily without much practice. She can drive a stick shift. 

She is also capable of love, although she thinks that this skill isn’t as hidden as it once was. She thinks she might get okay with that pretty soon. You betcha. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The term ‘secret penis’ has been stuck in my head ever since I read that one fanfic where Cecil doesn’t know what sex is. You know the one.


End file.
